


Prompt #28 Tired

by kurgaya



Series: Divine Footsteps [34]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Translation Available, Перевод на русский | Translation in Russian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-09
Updated: 2014-08-09
Packaged: 2018-02-12 11:13:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2107698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kurgaya/pseuds/kurgaya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their words aren’t quite ‘I love you,’ but they express it just the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prompt #28 Tired

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Зарисовка #028 Усталый](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7308328) by [a_m](https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_m/pseuds/a_m)



> This story has a slightly different tone compared to what I usually write, but I hope you like it anyway. (It's fluffy at the end, promise :P)

**Ghost**

He doesn't bring flowers, or a smile, or a sigh. The door clicking shut is the only sound; his feet, sore from overuse and victim to the gravel of battle, hounds tearing into his skin, are silent as they stride across the room. His gait is large and uninterrupted – there is little in the room beyond the pristine desolation of a death narrowly avoided, and the complex, astronomical machines required to ward the scythe away. The bed is his goal – or more specifically, the body resting upon it, caressed by the touch of sheets and waiting for change; for life to dawn through the midnight window, perhaps, or maybe something else, _someone_ else.

Ichigo is certain it’s the latter, for he knows Tōshirō Hitsugaya well, and the captain isn’t one to idly await the judgment of Fate to decide his life or death. No, Tōshirō is driven by a century old desire to _know_ and _perceive_ and _learn_. If death’s door were opening for him, he wouldn’t be lying quiet in the heart of the Fourth Division, defenceless with hopelessness and immobile with dread.

Still, Ichigo cannot help but feel a faint burn of worry as he pulls up a chair – the first visitor, it seems, though certainly not the last. The border patrol had erupted into futility at the furthest point from the safety of the Seireitei, and though they had fought to keep the casualties minimal, three men from the Tenth Division had perished before Tōshirō could barricade his officers within an icy fortification to protect them. Ichigo felt the weight of loss sit heavy on his shoulders – he had been there, he _should_ have been able to keep everyone alive – so he could only hazard as to what the captain was feeling.

He would ask, but Tōshirō’s eyes are grey with grief, and the ghostly pallor of his skin paints him into the bed. There are bandages wrapped around his torso and arms, confining him to rest. The split through his bottom lip will heal eventually, yet Ichigo can already hardly make it out; Tōshirō’s lips are rigid with a million cracks of thirst, and pale with a familiar shade of regret even as they turn upwards into a smile at the marmalade shine of the substitute shinigami.

“Hey,” Ichigo greets, taking a second to scan the various monitors about the bed for any inconsistencies – the vase of daffodils isn't included in this assessment, but he rolls his eyes at them anyway. No doubt Tōshirō has been in the Fourth enough times for Unohana to gauge his preference for the golden flowers. “You look terrible, by the way.”

“As do you,” Tōshirō croaks, though Ichigo is not the one who almost permanently coated his partner’s arms and uniform with a sticky, scarlet layer of misery and gore. “But I can’t change that, unfortunately.”

“Oh shut up,” Ichigo replies fondly, reaching over to gently poke his boyfriend’s shoulder in lieu of flicking him where it may hurt.

The captain huffs faintly, a humoured sigh, and inches his arm out from under the sterile entrapment of the duvet. His movements are uncharacteristically slow as his muscles and bones hiss at him to stop. Tōshirō ignores them, set on achieving his goal, yet Ichigo can hear the pain as it carves grimaces and winces into his partner’s sickly complexion. Even so, the ginger substitute shinigami doesn’t compel Tōshirō to halt, and instead moves his hand to meet the smaller one halfway; their fingers entwine together; Ichigo’s warm melding with Tōshirō’s chill.

“You’re cold,” he notes. He cups Tōshirō’s hand, rubbing the little titanium fingers between his own in a comforting motion. “You lost a lot of blood.”

“I know,” the captain says, and his voice is still but a whisper in the heavy quiet of the room. “But I’m sure I will be fine.”

“Course you will. I’m not letting you go anywhere.”

Tōshirō laughs softly and grips his lover’s hand tighter, sealing the promise. They have never been a couple of dramatic affection or outrageous proclamations of love, but verses of adoration and commitment pass between them anyway; in the ghost of their touch and the silence of their gesture.

“How’s Matsumoto?” the captain asks.

Ichigo smiles. Tōshirō’s devotion to his officers is one of his many aspiring characteristics. “Causing a fuss, like normal,” the substitute explains, catching the knowing roll of exasperation to the captain’s eyes. “But she said she’ll take care of things while you’re off-duty.”

“Good,” Tōshirō mutters. He sounds as if he had never doubted his lieutenant for a second, which Ichigo wholly believes. “I think I’ll rest here for a while then – away from all that chaos. I’m tired.”

The ending words are scarcely audible, and Ichigo only just manages to perceive them from where he’s half-bent over the bed. Subsequently, he doesn’t give any indication that he has heard the hushed admittance – of weakness, but of love as well, he knows – and instead forces his smile to widen in face of the wounded sight of his other half.

“I keep telling you to stop working so late,” he teases, his voice a chime of smugness.

“Shut up,” Tōshirō mumbles, echoing Ichigo’s tone of affection. “I can never seem to find some peace and quiet these days.”

“Shouldn’t have let me into your bed then – ouch! God, I thought you’d broken that wrist!”

Tōshirō is most definitely smirking as he shuffles into a position to sleep. “It was the other one,” he says, laughing at the exaggerated pout glaring down at him before giving into a yawn.

“You’re hard work sometimes,” Ichigo grumbles, but the fact that he’s yet to release his partner’s hand implies he only means it half-heartedly.

“So are you,” Tōshirō replies without missing a beat, but he does rub Ichigo’s fingers in apology. “Now let me sleep.”

“ _Yes yes_ , alright. No need to be snap – _I saw that look_.”

“You deserved it.”

“I did _not_ –”

(Their words aren’t quite ‘I love you,’ but they express it just the same).

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment or kudos as you go!


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